


Fuzzy Company

by Sunwhiskers



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, Secret Solenoid, Secret Solenoid 2020, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:09:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28648830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunwhiskers/pseuds/Sunwhiskers
Summary: Hound finds some possums in the snow while on a quiet scouting mission. Turns out possums are decently receptive company to the ramblings of an absentminded scout.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14
Collections: Secret Solenoid '20-'21





	Fuzzy Company

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stuffedart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stuffedart/gifts).



> This is my piece for Secret Solenoid 2020-'21! Posted late because I'm a dingus who completed my piece and then. literally forgot. about the event. yeah cool real responsible of me on that one.  
> I feel like the pacing is a little bumpy on this one, but I’m still pretty happy with it overall, considering how long it’s been since I actually sat down and wrote anything. I felt rusty for sure but the prompt was very easy to work with and I enjoyed putting this one together. I haven't written for Hound before, so I apologize if he feels a little flat. Merry (Late) Christmas and Happy Secret Solenoid!

Christmas was not a very well-celebrated thing aboard the _Ark_. To put it plainly, the timing simply wasn’t in their favor. The motley crew of Autobots had suffered a number of painful defeats at the hands of the Decepticons as of late, and despite their ever-present faith in their grimly determined leader, every mech aboard was feeling the dent in morale.

As it was, the residents of the miraculously-intact interceptor had only been awake on this planet for nearing three-quarters of its solar circuit. Their human companions had been keenly valuable in understanding the nuances of their species’ local culture; though Teletraan’s Sky Spy could pick up and decipher cultural events and relay its findings back to the computer’s main terminal, the information it gathered simply didn’t hold up to direct explanation from a local. This was especially true when it came to describing the American holidays. Though simple enough from an outside perspective, if a little bizarre (Why the dead organism in the living room? Why the door-to-door vocal performances?), the meaning behind the traditions of each strange annual event brought a level of clarity to the celebrations. It was a little late into the earth month to begin setting up for these festivities, but Optimus had vowed to Spike and Sparkplug that they’d make a thing of it next year. 

Hound, personally, found this to be a real shame. From what he understood of Sparkplug’s explanation, Christmas was a holiday meant to express joy, share hope, and spread cheer. It sounded like exactly the kind of boost that their faction needed, what with their recent losing streak and their lack of success in attempting to repair the long-range communications and establish contact with Cybertron. He kept his disappointment largely to himself, knowing Optimus had surely considered this and made an educated decision with the thought in mind.

A vent rattled through his fans in an imitation of an organic sigh, a little quirk he’d picked up from his scores spent visiting other planets before the war. Such bleak lines of consideration would do him no good, especially with so much distance left to cover on his route. This particular scouting mission had been assigned to him by Prowl; command had apparently been discussing the possibility of establishing a backup secondary base location to begin building emergency stores of supplies and equipment in the event that the _Ark_ be rendered out of commission. However unlikely such a circumstance may have been, contingencies were never a bad thing, and Prowl had been tasked with determining a suitable location. Hound found himself feeling grateful for the peaceful time away from base.

With a faint straightening of his spinal strut, he took hold of his processor’s musings and guided it to wander amongst the minor trivia and factoids he knew of Earth as he trudged along the sparsely-wooded forest edge. Something about the ever-present melody of life eased his processor and allowed his thoughts to drift like nothing else; the quiet hum of his systems and the steady crunch of his pedes packing prints into the snow was strangely beautiful against the snow-muffled chirp of birds and the peculiar hushed whisper of full silence that several feet of windless snow brought. The sound was amplified by the few hics or so (err, kilometers, he supposed) of open, untouched field on his right. The only visible signs of life were the occasional birds flitting to and fro across the field, or between the branches of the birches he moved past.

The sky here--still a bit of a thing to get used to, when compared to the open view of the cosmos that was typical of Cybertron--was greyed over with a thick, indistinguishable cloud cover. In these temperatures, the precipitation that drifted down consisted of small, crystalline flakes; the frozen form of small dihydrogen monoxide droplets. Through some curious questioning, Spike had divulged that each of these flakes was perfectly unique in that there had never been and would never be two of the same pattern. Hound found this to be an absolutely awe-inspiring marvel, and had told the teenager as much.

On most other bots, there would be a faint film of frost beginning to slowly curl and creak its way over his more extended extremities, the ones furthest from his spark chamber where the innate heat from his frame and engine wouldn’t reach. As it was, he had a rather compact build, so even the snow hitting his tires melted swiftly into misty droplets. He supposed that if he were a warm-blooded air-respiring organism he’d be seeing little puffs of similar mist with every exhale.

He had fallen down the rabbit hole of wondering what it’d be like to be organic (one he visited with more frequency than he might perhaps be willing to admit) when the sound caught his attention. It was a small thing, almost like a squeak or a chirp, but it hadn’t sounded quite like the little birds that still darted overhead. Instantly he came to a halt, cocking his helm to the right and focusing his audials.

For several astroseconds, he was met with nothing but the cold quiet of a still winter day. The snow continued to whisper, his systems continued to hum, and the birds continued to chatter in their musical language.

_Squeak._

Hound turned his helm to the left, optics flicking downwards as his sensors grasped onto the sound and zeroed in on the location of its source. In one of the larger snow-covered birches to his left, there was a hollow formed in the base of the trunk, presumably where old roots had either rotted or been damaged/eaten away and subsequently left a gaping hole. Though the sun was entirely hidden from view, the reflective surface of the snow was still quite bright for his more sensitively-tuned optics, and he had to partially shutter them to see past the glare and into the hollow of the trunk.

A huddle of black-grey fur and pinkish bits was balled up on a pile of dead leaves, thin twigs, and cold, packed dirt. Smalls bits and scraps of what looked like dried grass and shrubbery were packed into the shallow space, as well. Through his sharp vision, Hound could pick out the rise and fill of quick breaths made by three....no, four sets of tiny lungs.

“Well hello,” he murmured to himself.

With careful steps, Hound deviated from his course to cross the two steps necessary to reach the tree hollow containing the little creatures and crouched low in the snow, reaching down a hand to steady his weight. From beneath the patchy white bark, four pairs of beady black eyes turned to meet his gaze. They were set into little white faces framed by pale pink noses and thin, trembling whiskers. Two black ears sprouted from the back of each fuzzy head.

A pause, as Hound took a moment to sift through his catalogue of known species on Earth.

“Possums!” he whispered aloud in wonder.

Yes, there were four little possums tucked into what he presumed was their den, bundled together to keep warm against the chill of winter. A delightful little surprise! Judging by their size and proportions, he considered it a safe bet that these particular critters were juveniles, and rather young ones, at that. They seemed to be completely bewildered by his presence, and were each shaking visibly, if minutely.

Hound lifted his helm away from the den and shifted himself to sit on his haunches, scanning the surrounding area for other signs of life amongst the snowy floor. Nothing. There were no tracks in the surrounding area, and no movement was visible against the bark of the trees. Their mother was nowhere in sight.

Surely they must be cold?

It wasn’t ideal to mess with nature, but...

He hesitated for only a moment before dropping his crouch to sit on all fours and lean down to peer into the trunk once more. He stared at the bundle of fuzz, his bright optics casting a blue sheen to their fur. The four baby possums blinked back.

“You’re probably going to hate this, little fellas,” he told them. “But I don’t see your momma and I can’t imagine it’s too comfy down there in the cold.”

With painstakingly gentle movements, he reached a servo into the hollow and began the delicate task of slipping his digits behind the four creatures and dragging them towards the mouth of the opening. At first none of them resisted, but as he tugged lightly on their little bodies one of them made a little snarling sound and thrashed for a moment. This set off its siblings, and in a moment he had four twitching and snapping baby possums nestled into the crook of his servo as he bulldozed them carefully out of the den.

Without the tree trunk to block most of the light, the world was much brighter, and as he pulled the possums out into the snow they reacted violently and began to thrash and get their claws under them. Quickly, he shifted his weight to free up his other servo and cup the little creatures in his palms, fearing separation if he didn’t keep them in one spot. With as little force as he could muster, he scooped the baby possums up, attempting to brush off as much of the snow that clung to them as possible, and then shuffled his position, gathered his legs up from under him, and swiveled into a sitting position that leaned his back against the tree containing their den.

Cautiously, so as to keep their little appendages from catching in the seams of his structure, Hound raised the little possums up to his chassis, placed his hands against his front chestplate, and as quietly as possible started up his engine. Four sets of claws and baby teeth continued to scrape and scrabble at his plating as he watched them fight his hold, each attempting to look over the edge of his hands but always stumbling over one of its siblings in its angry haste.

“Feisty little buggers, aren’t’cha?” he spoke softly.

Tenderly, he lifted a thumb to run it down the fur of the baby closest to his reach. It snapped at his thumb, catching it in its puny mouth, and mouthed the metal awkwardly for a moment before jerking away to resume its escape attempts.

“I can respect that about you, you know. I may not be too hot-headed myself, but I know a handful of bots like that back at the _Ark_. All bite and all bark. Ironhide is the worst of them, at times. It’s a wonder he hasn’t blown the _Ark_ to bits with how restless these past few clashes have made ‘im.”

Satisfied that the possums would not be able to climb over his servos and go tumbling off, Hound lifted his helm and looked out over the field. On the opposite side of the open stretch, more forest lined the far edge, filled with a different kind of tree (they were some species of the coniferous variety, if he recalled correctly) and packed together much more densely than the birch forest he now sat it.

“He’s a good ‘bot, that one, but sometimes I wonder if he ever knows how to sit and take a moment to himself. ...At least, one that isn’t target practice or sparring,” he added as an afterthought.

His engine was warming quite nicely, now. He was keeping it running at the lowest RPM he could get it to manage in this cold weather, and it was paying off; he could feel the additional heat seeping into his chassis and beginning to bleed into his limbs. A cooling fan clicked on from somewhere in his midsection.

“To be entirely honest with you guys, I was really hoping we could convince Optimus to do something for Christmas this year. No such luck, of course; though he did listen like he always does.”

As the heat spread through his chestplate and reached his servos, the possums seemed to take notice of the warmth beginning to emanate through the metal. They didn’t quite settle in all the way, but the outrage seemed to lesson as they patted their tiny paws against his palms.

“I was mostly hoping we could hold a little celebration of some kind. I suppose it would feel a little weird to celebrate customs of a planet I’ve never even heard of before coming here...perhaps it isn’t fair to ask the rest of the crew to put out for a holiday born of the planet they’re stuck on until we can contact Cybertron to tell them we’re alive down here. Might not be fair, considering the homesickness we’re experiencing and all. Maybe.”

The baby possums had now almost entirely calmed down, and were reforming their little bundle that he’d found them in beneath the hollow of the tree. Hound shifted his servos minutely to help accommodate the act.

“But...surely. Surely it would do good to give my friends a good old fashioned boost of confidence and hope. These humans might be strange, but if that’s the message of Christmas, then I should think it’s the kind of holiday I want more of around here.”

He paused, then. Pensive somberness creased the plating between his optical ridges, hardening his expression as his thoughts drifted to memories of cubes being clinked and laughter being shared. Though holidays weren’t quite so numerous or universal on Cybertron as they seemed to be here on Earth, there were still a few customs most bots shared and took part in every solar cycle. It was truly a strange thought to realize that the last time any of them had likely been celebrated was millennia ago. The hollow ache this produced in his chassis was strangely numb and dull.

Breaking himself from his thoughts, Hound looked down at the possums. They had finally found a comfortable position to pile themselves into, and he could feel their rapid little heartbeats as they twitched and scratched at themselves and each other. A smile rose to his features as he watched them blink.

“Perhaps next year we’ll have a bit more luck with our timing, and perhaps a bit more local help to prepare. I hear decorating is a big part of the festivities. Do possums celebrate anything, I wonder?”

He was just preparing to make a Sideswipe-level joke about what possum festivities would look like when he was interrupted by a tinny, curdling growl that sounded off to his left. Hound turned and was greeted with the sight of a full-grown possum standing about four mechanometers away in the snow, its mouth open to bare four fangs and two rows of stubby, pointy teeth. Its gaze was directed straight at him, and it looked ready to fly at him in a second.

“Well now, is this mom?”

He posed the question to the babies in his servos, still curled up against his grill. The same amused smile from before crossed his face as he noted three of the four were asleep.

“If that’s the case, then it looks like this is goodbye. You’ve been an excellent audience; I appreciate your listening skills.”

His joints creaked lightly as he sat up from his position against the tree and rose into a standing position. Despite his best efforts, his hands lurched and rocked as he came to his feet, and within moments the baby possums were squirming in his grasp, making little crying rasps as they were removed from their heat source.

“Now, now, no need for that. Mom’s right here and I’m sure she’ll keep you plenty warm.”

Slowly, Hound lowered his cargo down to the snow and deposited the fuzzballs onto the bank nearest their den. Then, straightening to his full height, he took enough steps back so that there was a fair amount of distance between himself and the reuniting possum family.

Spark feeling light, he watched as the mother, still glaring after him, started off towards her children in a speedy trot, nose down and paws flashing in the snow. The babies saw her coming, and within moments of reaching her brood they were burying their claws in her soft fur and hauling themselves onto her back.

It took only a handful of astroseconds for them to be seated on their mom. With a final suspicious glance in Hound’s direction, the mother waddled herself and her young back into their den in the hollow of the birch tree, visible for only a moment longer before her pink tail disappeared beneath the shadow of the bark.

Hound continued to stand and watch for a few kliks longer, silent and unmoving as the trees around him. It took him a moment, but when he tuned back into the world he realized his engine was still rumbling faintly. Quietly, he let out a brief vent before disengaging it, turning away from the possum den, and making his way back to his previous path.

The sky was still the same patchy grey when he rejoined his route and began to once more follow the edge of the forest. The birds still swept by overhead and over the field, and the snow continued to whisper hushedly against the hum of his systems and the crunch of his pedes. But now, he walked with a faint smile, and the thought that perhaps he could experience a little of his own Christmas cheer, out here in the snow, alone but for the image of four little possums curled up, asleep against his grill.


End file.
